Page 27 of Their Broken Legend

It’s stuck hard.

Fair!

Fuck it.

Losing my mind, I kick the stake hard with the bottom of my shoe, over and over and over, panting as I work.

What the fuck?

Defeated and out of breath, I stumble backwards, all the while glaring at the steadfast sign as though it is the reason I can’t bring my dad home.

Suddenly, someone blocks my view of it. When the Cabi man appears in front of me, I ready myself for a lecture.

“Just don’t—”

My words stop on my tongue as he puts his big, black boot on the board and steps down. The stake splinters in half, and the board now lays in the grassy dirt beneath the weight of his solid body.

I half expected him to leave me high and dry like the last driver did outside my house. I’m making a habit of meltdowns in front of the Cabi community.

Startled—thrown, actually—I watch Cabi man grab the snapped directional and hold it out for me.

I look up at him, noting his appearance for the first time since I climbed into his car twenty minutes ago. He’s weathered by sunblasted skin; despite that, he’s more youthful looking than my dad. Maybe he’s in his 50s? Greying blonde hair and wise raisin-coloured eyes that seem to stare off into space instead of directly at me. I could see him surfing, scolding the groms when they drop on his wave, shaking his fist at litter on the sand. An old beach-bum.

“Here ya go,” he states roughly. “Now, get in the car before you end up locked in the place you’re visitin.’”

Reeling from his actions, I simply nod and take the picket as though it’s my prize—a picket for a meltdown—and climb back into the clean white Mazda.

When the car takes off in silence, turning into thedelightfullyunmissable off-road, I gaze down at the stake resting between my shoes. The carpet beneath is clean but still has a shimmer. I use the pointy end of the picket to flick at it, seeing a sprinkle of sand rise from the mesh.

Heisa beach-bum. I stare at the beach-bum Cabi-Man and say, “Why did you do that? Help me back there?”

“I’m on the clock,” he answers plainly. “Got another pick-up, that’s all. You weren’t gettin’ anywhere with it.”

I don’t buy it. It’s an acceptable answer, I suppose, although I get the feeling it’s straight-out bullshit.

He keeps his eyes on the road, squinting slightly or maybe his face is just set like that—deep eyes, wandering mind, a perpetual expression of reflection.

The white Mazda rolls down the hill to thecleverlynamed Clover Hill Remand building.

It looks like a school.

An old 90s school.

To further stress the mood, the outside is rendered and painted in grey. The entrance is through the middle of two single-storey buildings with three sets of gates leading down between them.

Is the left side murderers and rapists?

The right for… everyone else?

Along with my purse, I claim the splintered stake that represents all that is wrong with my life, and I exit the car. I go to close the door but stop. Leaning down to face the beach-bum Cabi-Man, I say, “Thanks for the picket.”

“You’re welcome.” He nods stiffly, his profile to me. “Don’t go hurtin’ anyone with the pointy end, now.”

I actually smile. “I’ll only use it if I have to.”

“Well, if you have to, then you definitely should.”

I like him.

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